


Amnesia

by marzichan



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: AU, Gen, Superstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/351931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marzichan/pseuds/marzichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a car crash, Jake forgets who he really is. Superstuck AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amnesia

**Author's Note:**

> Superstuck is a Homestuck AU based in a world where supervillains and superheroes are a common sight. In this AU, Jake is both a supervillain called General Terror and the son of the infamous Lord English. You can find out more by visiting [this page.](http://generalterror.tumblr.com/faq) This story was originally posted [here](http://generalterror.tumblr.com/post/14175934925/the-tailorbird-is-a-thorn-in-your-side-thats-for) on Tumblr.

The Tailorbird is a thorn in your side, that’s for sure. One you would gladly pluck if not for the fact that he always somehow seems to come out on top. It’s infuriating! You do your best, but it’s never enough.

And today was no different. You’re already sporting a few minor aches and pains from the latest clash between the mighty Tailorbird and poor General Terror, and maybe that’s why your mind isn’t on the road—despite the fact that you’re the one driving the Terror-mobile back to your lair. Alone.

Although Otto normally accompanies you wherever you go, today he was left behind due to some new-fangled upgrades Equius is currently implementing on his framework. It’s a pity, really, because his sharp mind and reflexes would’ve noticed the incoming truck long before it plowed into the side of your car.

Pain, accompanied by the screech of tires and crunch of metal, is the last thing your senses register before everything goes black.

***

When you finally regain consciousness, pain is the first thing to remember. The troubling aspect of that is… it’s the _only_ thing you remember. Your body feels slow and sluggish, your limbs leaden—but thankfully not confined by casts.

What happened? You know it must have been bad for your thoughts to flit toward broken bones and blood spilled, but you just can’t recall. You blink slowly, dazed and confused, unaware of the bandages wrapped around your head. Where are you? A hospital? Yes, that feels right. But what about everything else?

You sit there, trying to mull it over, but the answers don’t come. Eventually you realize that you aren’t alone. A blond-haired stranger sits in the chair across from your bed.

He lifts his head when you show the first signs of consciousness, eyebrows raising almost to the line of his gelled hair. He’s clearly relieved, even if he’s trying not to show it.

“You’re awake,” he states, plainly. “The doctors were kind enough to fill me in while you were out.” He takes a moment to mull over his words, only to lean forward in his chair and rest his chin in his palm.

He looks casual enough, and maybe he would even look friendly were it not for the shades hiding his eyes. “Surprise.”

“Oh, that’s… nice.” You respond, hesitantly. The fact that you can’t remember this guy’s name—because surely you know him!—is bugging you a lot more than you want to admit. Is he family? No, that feels wrong. A friend? Sort of? It’s hard to explain what you feel when you look at him.

You try to sit up, which proves to be a bad idea. You slump back down against the bed, dizzy, weak. “How long was I out?”

He gives a quiet, amused sort of scoff at your comment of ‘nice’ but bites his tongue if he had any snark to follow that up with.

“A while,” he answers instead. And moves again. Wow, _someone_ is fidgety—just how long, exactly, is ‘a while’? “They said you got hit fairly hard, though with such an accurate estimation as _fairly_ , I don’t know why I haven’t calculated exactly the time you should’ve been unconscious with any number of scientifically exact charts and graphs yet.”

“Oh.” Maybe that explains the sluggish way your body is moving, as if you’ve been away from it for some time. It obviously hasn’t taken care of itself well in your absence!

He scoots his chair closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Actually, this might be a good chance for me to ask you, um, what your name is again? I know I should know it, haha, but to be perfectly honest I’m not even certain what my own name is.” You glance downward, awkwardly, before peeking back up at him to see his reaction. Will he be angry with you? “Also, I do believe my eyes are possibly messed up since everything is kind of blurry.”

“Your glasses probably met their death in the crash.” He chooses to explain your statement rather than answer your question first; though, if he’s surprised by it, the emotion doesn’t show on his face. Just in his mannerisms.

He sits back and looks you over, biting the inside of his mouth gently before speaking again.

“Jake English,” he gestures to you, then himself; “Strider, though better known to _you_ as The Tailorbird, I’m sure. Any bells?”

Jake English? Something clicks into place in your mind, and you nod. Yes, you’re Jake, aren’t you? For some reason you find yourself thinking of the color green and skulls, as if both help define who you are. Huh. You wait for him to tell you his name as well, but he only offers his surname, as well as some title you don’t recognize.

“Strider?” You wrinkle your nose. “What, don’t you have a first name?”

“Slow your roll, _English_. We aren’t tight enough for that.” He crosses his fingers to demonstrate the tight that the two of you apparently are not and drops his hand. There’s something like discouragement in his tone, but he keeps right on going as though discussing the weather.

“I’m not even sure you knew my name _before_ you stumbled into the wild world of what seems to be amnesia, so I don’t see any reason to reveal it when you aren’t even all there to appreciate it.”

How rude. That’s your first thought when he rebuffs your question, and after you mull the indignation over in your head you decide that is probably the right reaction to him spurning you like that.

“Well gol _ly_! Excuse me for assuming you and I were friends or something. I thought bedside vigils were something only chums did but apparently my poor amnesiac brain got that wrong too.” You huff. “You must be one of those coma creepers then. Sorry to deny you of your latest fetish by waking up, dickprince!”

A smile works its way to his face, then, despite the harsh tone of your words. What a freak.

“I do love my puppets, but I think I just might live another day with your animated reactions in my life. And lucky you, for it, because without me sitting here beside you, you would be dreadfully lonely.”

It’s not the nicest way to break the news. Anyway, your acquaintances just happen to be the type of people that should never be allowed in a hospital.

You don’t realize that, of course. From the way he said it, it sounded like he was implying that you have no real friends to sit by your bedside. That… can’t be true, can it? You glance around as if someone else will suddenly jump out of the woodwork to assure you that you really do have friends.

“Oh. Um.” You frown uncertainly. “I must have family, at least? Someone to check me out of here. A place I can go. I have those things, don’t I?”

Strider, for all his cool, turns his head a bit, as though avoiding eye contact will avoid answering your questions.

“I’m not sure if your family member even knows, let alone cares.” He waves his hand, silently admitting his own ignorance of the situation of you and your father. There’s a lot up in the air about the relations of the English family, and an outsider can’t be expected to keep up with it all.

But again, this is not something you currently remember, so you take the news pretty hard. Gee, wow, your life must suck. You don’t have any real friends, your family doesn’t care, and this douchebag is the only person bothering to be here.

You slump further down on your bed, disheartened. “What am I going to do now?” The moment you’re well enough to discharge, you’ll be screwed. What will you do without your memories?

His answer surprises you.

“I could extend my hospitality once you’re in a state to move,” he offers. Even he seems surprised with his own generosity, but he leans on the bed as if it’s no big deal. “I can pull a few strings to get you out of here.” He is, after all, _The_ Tailorbird.

Your eyes widen as you stare at him, honestly taken aback. “You’d… do that for me? You’d let me stay with you, even if we aren’t really friends?” You don’t understand. “Why?”

“Technically speaking, we’re not friends,” he corrects. “But what kind of hero would I be if I let some unfortunate soul wither away, ostracized and adrift in the metaphorical sea that is your hospital bed?”

You don’t realize that he means hero literally. As in, he has a hero license and you are usually his arch nemesis. Instead, you just smile reluctantly and roll your eyes at him.

“Oh well. At least I am not completely alone, I guess. So… thanks for that, Strider.” Maybe you’ll remember who you really are soon enough.

You’ll probably end up punching him once you do.


End file.
